


A Revolution of Snow

by werepope (quiteparadise)



Series: The Start of Something [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Competitive snow sculpting, Fatherhood, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 17:16:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5425292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiteparadise/pseuds/werepope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parenting is hard, some days more than others.</p><p> </p><p>Prompt: Snowman</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Revolution of Snow

**Author's Note:**

> In a while, I will put on some boots  
> and step out like someone walking in water,  
> and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,  
> and I will shake a laden branch  
> sending a cold shower down on us both.
> 
> \- Billy Collins, "Snow Day"

"They're going to be disappointed."

Thranduil turns to catch the outline of Bard's profile. Lights off, nearly midnight, and Bard is barely visible limned in the pale reflection of moonlight against snow that casts the world outside the windows in a faint glow.

He reaches a hand out under the weight of the duvet, fingers finding the firm plane of thigh covered in flannel. He squeezes, not going entirely for comfort. "They'll do fine," he says. "Don't be such a pessimist."

Bard takes a deep breath and Thranduil rolls toward him before he can release it in a sigh, jostling him a bit despite the plushness of the mattress.

"They'll do fine."

Bard's insistence is steel under velvet, softened by the rumble of his voice pitched bedroom low, the blind press of his hand over Thranduil's. "I just think we should be encouraging participation over winning."

"Says the former olympian."

Thranduil regrets saying it almost immediately. Bard's face still isn't clear, any expression he wears a smudge over indefinite features, but Thranduil knows the weight of his pauses now, the hesitation of touch, the lowering of fine dark lashes. He has learned to read between the lines. He doesn't need sight to know that Bard's mouth has twitched down in a fleeting, knee-jerk frown.

Bard's silver medal is on the mantle now, crowded artfully in amongst family photos from before and after: Bard's parents in black and white, posed on the hood of a Desoto, his mother's dark curls shining in the sun; Elien delighted through her exhaustion, cradling Legolas who was so new and red, her hand curled around the tiny dome of his skull; the kids in formalwear, caught mid-leap off of the deck, all of them beaming pure joy at the camera, the gauzy layers of Tilda's dress crushed in exuberant fists to show off her Chuck Taylors dyed to match. There's good and bad up there, happy and sad, but it belongs wholly to them, nothing they'd wish to forget.

Bard trained for most of his young life for that medal, every day for more than ten years, went to Athens at nineteen with a Hoyt sponsorship and a determination that was borne more out of mastering himself than the precision grouping of his shots. He doesn't resent those years, those countless hours of infinitesimal corrections, because for all of it he's here now and archery has played no small part in that. But there is a quiet weight to his shoulders some days as he changes the limbs on Legolas's bow for greater draw strength. Thranduil doesn't ask. They both have burdens they haven't shared yet.

"Yeah says the former olympian," Bard says, calloused fingers dipping into the cup of Thranduil's palm. "I just don't want to have to pick up the pieces if this gets out of hand."

"It'll be fine," Thranduil says instead, and tilts himself further in, weight balanced half over Bard to drop a kiss to his bare shoulder.

…

Thranduil is doing the prototypes for a veritable army of sun-bathing ballerinas, but he's taken a break and cleaned off his work table to spread out a dozen or so concept sketches. Bain and Sigrid pour over them as critically as any costume department head, discarding this and tweaking that. Thranduil pencils in relevant changes as quickly as they come.

"I like this one," Bain says of drawing number three, pulling it toward them for inspection.

Sigrid crowds in against the edge of the table. "We can't do the neck like that," she points out, "but I like the tail."

"Could we do that neck with this body? I like this head more, though."

Thranduil moves to a new piece of paper to do a rough sketch, aware of their gazes over his shoulder as he works. He's been working in these collective criticism environments for years now, he knows when and where to apply his opinion, but he's surprised at how quickly the kids have taken to it. Maybe _disconcerted_ is the more appropriate word.

"Like this?" he asks, and Sigrid moves in close again to get a better look – he needs to make sure he schedules an eye exam for her.

Their agreement and approval comes much faster than it normally does in these situations, at least. Sigrid's fingers hover at the edge of the paper, pleasure all but radiating from her smile. "We'll have to try the wing points in scale," she says, while Bain nods sagely and says _right, right_ like a good leader.

"Go call the others in for lunch and we'll see if they like it," Thranduil tells them. The whole thing has been very democratic and there will be no final design approval without Legolas or Tilda's nod of approval, although the kids generally like everything to be unanimous, because they are kids and they haven't yet grown claws with which to dig into their pride.

Thranduil turns the page in his sketchbook to draw out the dragon again, long fluid strokes for the lines of folded wings, the elegant curve of neck, a series of smooth angles for the head tucked near the body. It took them a failed attempt and some testing before they realized that everything would have to be relatively grounded. There's no armature allowed in competitive snow sculpting.

Everyone is outside when he emerges from the studio, sketchbook in hand. Sigrid and Bain have thrown on coats and boots from the mudroom, but Legolas and Tilda and Bard are decked out in hats and scarves and gloves, dressed for the long haul. They've taken over the duty of creating piles of snow on which to practice, shoveling whole patches of the yard bare. To absolutely no one's surprise, it's Bard who has done the vast majority of the actual shoveling, despite his worries of letting the whole thing get out of hand.

Also unsurprising that it's Bard who finally herds them inside now, flushed with the cold and dusted from head to toe with a fine coating of white. Thranduil starts the coffee pot to brewing.

Lunch is the chili that Bard started in the morning before heading in to the shop to work on the books for a couple of hours. He's not a great cook – no patience for the hurry up and wait of baking properly or prep that takes longer than an hour – but he's better than Thranduil had bargained for in the beginning, and more willing to come over to vegetarianism if not out and out veganism. He still makes omelets and likes real cheese on his pizza, has the occasional fast food lunch. They've both made their allowances. Thranduil won't buy eggs but he doesn't have a crisis over finding them in the fridge anymore, and they only cook vegan for the household.

It's been easier than he thought, finding these places to slot more people into his life, into his family.

The cacophony of excited voices barely muffled by the french door precedes the kids into the house, like the warning rumbles of a volcano before eruption. Also like a volcanic eruption, there is immediate chaos. Bain and Legolas talking about the best way to pack snow, voices raised to compete with Sigrid and Tilda who are arguing in the sisterly way – fierce and at an impressive volume about nothing in particular. Bard, trailing them to pick up dropped gloves and hats, is wearing his _I love you but I want you to shut up face_ – Thranduil is very familiar with that one.

The smell of sweet potato and cayenne pepper leads everyone through to the kitchen, where the kids fall into a well-learned routine of washing up and setting the table and pouring glasses of juice and water and almond milk. Thranduil gets crackers from the pantry, dodging Sigrid and her wild, wet-handed dash from the bathroom.

"How's it going out there?" Thranduil asks, setting a plate of vegan saltines on the table and watching Bard shed his own winter layers finally. Under his heavy coat he's wearing a dark henley that does nothing to hide the shift of muscle as he hangs up his armful of discarded knitwear.

Bard's voice is gruff from the cold and probably from some yelling, but there's only fond softness underneath. "Three snowball fights."

"You've only been out there since ten."

Bard's voice sounds a little more rough from up close, or maybe that's the way he's pitched it low, as if any of the kids are paying them the least mind. "Snowball skirmishes, then," he says, and slips his hands up into Thranduil's sweater.

They have all of the kids' attention then, when Thranduil strangles a shriek and shoves himself back into Bard, away from his absolutely frozen fingers. Bard laughs but doesn't relent, just spreads his hands wide and holds on through Thranduil's squirming fury. And he is furious, hissing indignation, but he doesn't even attempt to break away. He'd rather suffer a minute or two of discomfort than have Bard suffer frostbite, after all.

It's true what they say: marriage really is all about compromise.

…

The snow dragon is six feet long from end to end and comes up past Thranduil's knee. Everyone agrees it's a very nice dragon. Sigrid wants to make it bigger for the competition. Bain thinks they should do one more, to practice the scales. Legolas wants to know if they can color it and has pulled a PDF of the official regulations up on his phone. Tilda desperately wants to ride it.

Thranduil surveys dragon and sculptors and feels a bubble of happiness grow in his chest, his lungs shaking on an inhale as they struggle against the sudden obstruction.

"It's very handsome," he declares.

"She's a girl dragon," Tilda says, little gloved hand stroking feather light over the dragon's back.

"Well she is a very handsome dragon."

Tilda nods and steps back, plants her hands on her hips, and looks over their work grimly. "Yes," she agrees, "very handsome."

Thranduil scoops her up with a growl: "Are you making fun of me, little dragon rider?" His very threatening dragon voice gets cut off by an accidental knee to the ribs, but he holds on tight and she doesn't hold it against him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Can't I pleeeeeease ride it?" she begs. "It's only a practice dragon."

It is only a practice dragon, it's true, and if it were up to Thranduil he'd have let her do it at the very first hint of whine in her voice, but it's not. The others have spoken: if Tilda wants to ride a dragon, she can ride any of the previous three they've made throughout the yard. This one is by far the prettiest, though. He understands her plight.

"After the contest," Thranduil promises, hugging her to dampen the disappointment. Her arms loosen a little and he has no choice but to offer her alternatives, because he doesn't know how to do anything by halves and he adores her far too much to tolerate denying her. "Want to help me make gingerbread for a house?"

Bard does his absolute best for his children, is easily as soft as Thranduil for all that he is better at doing the stern dad voice. But there are things he neglected, things he didn't know or recognize the need for. They both have their faults, some deep and glaring, others only minor. They try hard to do better, by themselves and each other, for the sake of the kids.

It's no tragedy of childrearing that Tilda pulls back from Thranduil, a look of incredulity on her face, and says: "Gingerbread houses come out of boxes." It hurts a lot more than her knee in his chest, though.

Twenty minutes later, everyone warm and bundled up in fresh socks, fire roaring in the hearth, and Tilda cups her hands against the glass of the oven to see the sheet of gingerbread as it cooks. "And gumdrops for the garden," she enthuses.

Thranduil writes it down. He'll have to order most of the candy online – it's almost impossible to find vegan sweets at the grocery apart from Twizzlers and the occasional box of Jujubes.

"Oh, oh!" Tilda all but jumps up suddenly, socked feet skidding a bit on the floor as she dashes over to him. "And fizzy apple juice!"

"For what, angel?"

"For after we win the contest!" She throws her arms up. "Like at the race!"

Thranduil laughs, more disbelieving than misunderstanding. "What kind of races have you been watching? And where?"

"Duh, ada. Nascar."

Thranduil drops his pen to grip the edge of the counter. He's going to throw out every television in the house.

…

Before they got married they had the obligatory discussions about name changes, between themselves and then with the kids. No one wanted to give up their name, and no one really wanted to make anyone else give up theirs, which left two options: keep their surnames or hyphenate. Bowman-Doriath sounded better but, to Thranduil's horror, it would make his and Tilda's initials TBD. To Be Decided was deemed too great an omen for a wedding not even planned, and so they decided on Doriath-Bowman.

The Doriath-Bowman family create an eight foot dragon named Smaug for Rhovanion's sixth annual snow sculpture competition. It has lovely smooth wings and very good scales and a friendly grin, and for their considerable effort they are given a participation ribbon and a gift certificate to Rudy's Country Store & BBQ.

The kids sullenly shed boots and gloves and hats as they trudge into the house, armor they no longer need in the crush of their defeat. They went to battle this morning, bless their little hearts, for honor and art. They were hopelessly outclassed.

This was their idea. They knew what they were going up against from the galleries of past competitions from Facebook. Thranduil isn't surprised that they lost, exactly, although he's surprised sheer adorableness didn't get them further – an honorable mention, at least, to soften the blow.

Thranduil makes cocoa, the best balm he knows for hours in the snow and the heartsick of disappointment. He even goes so far as to break out the coconut whipped cream – handmade and kept in the freezer for just such an emergency of emotion. He whisks it briefly to soften it before dropping it in wilting peaks onto the surface of the cocoa, and gives the lot a dusting of cocoa powder before loading the mugs onto a tray.

Tilda and Bain and Sigrid are sprawled across the living room, some of them without even the fortuity left to make it onto furniture, just dropped unceremoniously onto the floor. Sigrid manages a smile and a mutter of thanks. Tilda's eyes light up at the sight of sugar. Bain sniffles a bit, trying to hide it, his head ducked as he accepts his mug.

"Where are Legolas and daddy?" Thranduil asks, two mugs too many left on his tray and no more hands to press them into.

It's Sigrid who replies, licking whipped cream off of her top lip. "Outside shooting. Being boys." There's something as frosty as their dragon in her tone, and Thranduil sends a quick plea to the stars for strength through the wild unknown of female puberty before he sets the tray down and steps out onto the deck to call them in.

They're standing near the center of the yard, a few feet of room between them, stances an even shoulder-width apart, left feet turned toward the target of one of the earliest dragon attempts. Its neck collapsed even in the building, head fallen to pieces as it hit the ground. It looks like little more than a pile of snow now, barbed with the dark shafts of a half dozen arrows. From this distance Thranduil can't make out the fletching colors, Bard's black and white versus Legolas's green, but there's a neat cluster of three that he'd bet have Bard's fingerprints all over them.

As he watches, Legolas draws on an inhale, thumb anchoring to the hinge of his jaw, and he takes a couple of long seconds before he releases. Inside there is the sound of the kids coming back to life, but out in the snow he knows there will be only the even sound of Legolas's slow exhalation, the thump of the arrow hitting snow, and the singing vibration of the bow string dampened by rubber.

The shot is low, a good six inches beneath what he assumes they have deemed the center, but neither comments. Bard only noks another arrow from the quiver at his hip and draws. Releases. The arrow embeds unerringly into the center grouping, tightening the cluster. If Legolas is frustrated by his flagging, it doesn't seem to affect him. He repeats the process, the only way to learn the muscle memory of instinctive shooting, but his pause before release is longer this time.

The arrow must come considerably closer this time, because Bard claps a hand on Legolas's shoulder when he lowers his bow, and Legolas's face is hard but pleased, a determination that strikes Thranduil as familiar despite having never seen it in the mirror.

Thranduil puts their mugs in the microwave for later and joins Sigrid on the couch.

"Next year," he says, "let's do a stag."

**Author's Note:**

> Coconut whipped cream does not keep well in the freezer. It doesn't even keep particularly well in the fridge. John 11:35.
> 
>  
> 
> I helped Dollylux brainstorm this AU and so she's gracefully allowed me to muddle about with the characters and call it canon. Thanks/sorry!


End file.
